Dirty Money ARC

by Deforest Day

  City folk, with their street lights, night lights, flash lights, feared the darkness. Feared the boogie man under the bed.

  Mamaw’s pastor told her there was no such thing as ghosts, and, when asked, had passed the news along to young Robert. Papaw said he didn’t know if they existed or not, but told his grandson that in the recorded history of the world there was nary a case of a single person being harmed by one. Frightened, maybe; but lots of things, things you didn’t understand, raised your neck hairs.

  He figured if ghosts did exist, this was as good a place as any to encounter them. He smiled, thinking about another time-worn hotel in Afghanistan; the scene of his final fall from grace. No ghosts, but plenty of spooks.

  He headed down the hallway, where the occasional clack of billiard balls hinted at humanity.

  Pushing through swinging half doors, the kind seen on old TV westerns, he found himself in a large, square bar room. A steel accordion gate, like the one that protected the storefront back in Clarksville, stood ready to separate the liquor supply from midnight ramblers after closing time.

  Thick maple, walnut, oak tables for two, tables for four were along the walls, empty save for mismatched armchairs; comfortable, inviting. Set awhile; gab and drink. The kind of furniture nobody’d raise a fuss, you got out your Barlow and carved your mark. An antique pool table under a reproduction Tiffany lamp was occupied by a pair of lanky men in their late twenties.

  An old man in a wheelchair, legless, with the overdeveloped upper body often found in his situation, held a beer bottle in one hand and a glass in the other as he watched the game.

  The bar itself, a massive, ornate mahogany structure dating from the days of gaslight, dominated the wall to his right. The back bar mirror had succumbed to the years, its silver spider-webbed with darker lines. Justice saw himself, as through a veil. An older, fainter image, one that conjured a daguerreotype memory. A line from one of Davy’s picture shows welled up from the depths.

  ‘As if through a glass, darkly,

  The age-old strife I see.’

  The source escaped him. Davy would tell him which one it was. But Davy was on the other side.

  Break on through to the other side. The lyric looped in his head; Break on through, break on through, break on through. There’s another world over there, running along side mine, he thought. One made up of songs and movie dialog, of pretty girls and lots of laughter. He gave his head a shake, shuddered at the fleeting contact he felt from that other side. Neck hairs, indeed. He’s gone; accept it. Davy Davy Davy.

  A older man and a younger woman stood at the far end of the bar, bantering with the barmaid.

  Like the sniper he had been, and the woodsman he would ever be, Justice had the ability to suddenly appear out of nowhere. Back at Bragg a Sergeant Major had called him a ‘gol dang Cheshire Cat’, but told the other students to watch what he did. If you can.

  “Harder to cut a thirst here than a dry county down home,” Justice said, lifting his foot onto the brass rail. A stand and drink bar. He liked that; you want to sit, take a table.

  “Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” The barmaid, a plump woman—girl—with a lot of hair, turned his way. “You give me a start. You musta come in through the front.”

  “Guilty as charged, ma’am. Was I out of line?”

  “No, no; only, most people use the door over there, off the side street. What can I do ya for?”

  “Well, a beer, for a start. You carry one called Yuengling?”

  “Chesterfield ale and Black and Tan in bottles. Lager on tap.”

  “I heard tell of that Black and Tan. Let me try one.”

  Pudge popped the top, poured it into a glass. The head rose, a khaki cap on a dark liquid. To Justice it looked like Brer Rabbit molasses. He took a sip. Reminded him of some cough syrup he and a buddy had gotten into, back in ninth grade. Still, he’d had worse. This was way better’n fermented mare’s milk.

  “You still rent rooms out?”

  “Yessir. Not all that much of a week night, but yeah. Twenty a night, hunnert a week.” She laid his change on the bar. “You passin’ through, or plan to visit?”

  “Hard to say. Let’s just do tonight, and we’ll see what tomorrow brings.”

  “Okey doak.” She turned, yelled through a door behind the bar. “Alice! Go make up a room for mister—” She looked at her newest guest.

  “Justice.”

  She extended her hand across the bar. “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure. Pudge Talbot. Real name’s Dorothy, but I was kinda hefty in school, and you know how nickname’s are; can’t shake ‘em once they latch on.”

  You’re still ‘kinda hefty’, Justice thought, and poured the rest of the beer into his glass.

  Alice came out of the back room, drying her hands on a damp apron. A small, ferret-faced girl in her early twenties. Her blue hair and facial hardware drew his attention. “I washed the plates and glasses, but I still got the Fryolater to do.”

  “Oh, leave it sit until morning. It’s late; take care of Mr. Justice here, then knock off.” She winked at the girl, gave her head a slight tilt in his direction.

  “I’ll just take my beer along,” Justice said. “You want me to leave a deposit on the glass?”

  “I guess I can trust you with it. Have ta warn you, though, we count the towels.”

  Yankee humor? he wondered, and followed the elfin Alice back toward the lobby.

  She went behind the front desk and clicked on a gooseneck lamp, studied the register, then turned to look at the key slots behind her. She swung back and asked, “With or without?”

  “With what?”

  “Bath. See, some of the rooms, it’s down the hall? But the others shares a bath with another room; in between. We ain’t like your modern places, where every one has one.” She leaned an elbow on the marble, her chin on her palm.

  “Me and my husband went to Atlantic City, on our honeymoon? And we stayed at the Holiday Inn. Way, waaay bigger’n this place. I mean we rode up for ever and ever on an elevator, just to get to our floor. And then it was hike down a long hallway to the room. Which had it’s own bathroom, with both a real tub, and a shower in a separate thing. Plus, there was two sinks, and two beds. I guess in case people who wasn’t married went there. But that Holiday Inn was new, not like the Shaleville.”

  She grabbed a key from a slot and dropped it on the marble counter. “It’s old, hundreds and hundreds of years. This here hotel, I mean.”

  Justice looked again at his surroundings. “It doesn’t look all that old.”

  “Oh yeah. Outside, up the corner of the building, there’s a rock, with M’s and C’s and X’s on it? Means it was built by the Romans.

  “Like the bank across the street. They say King Coal ruled here for better’n a hundred years, all by himself. Anyway, the rooms that shares is five more, twenty five a night, but,” and here she dropped her voice, as though the lobby was filled with curious bystanders, “I can put you in Number 22 for twenty bucks.” She added in a whisper, “Pudge don’t need to know.”

  “Pudge the boss?”

  “Well, sorta. Her granddaddy, that’s the guy in the wheelchair, I don’t know if you noticed, but he lost his legs? At that Vietnam? He owns the hotel, but Pudge, she runs it, takes care of the day to day, on account of she’s got legs.” Alice tittered, a tiny tinkle. “I mean, she can go down cellar, horse the kegs, and all. He keeps the books and orders and that. Anyhow, I’ll put you in twenty-two. That’n shares a bath with me. I’m in twenty-four.”

  “You live here?”

  “Yeah, kinda. While my husband’s away. We got our ‘partment, but I don’t like bein’ alone, and since I’m here all hours anyhow, it just makes sense for me to sleep over. The room’s free on account of the job, and it ain’t like we’re turning away guests or nothing. It’s the slow season.”

  It appears to be the slow century. Making conversation, he asked, “Your husband in the service?”

  “Well, sorta
, I guess. He works for Pennline, the tree trimmers? It's what you call a service company. They does line clearing. For the power companies? He’s up in New York State this month. They works four weeks, then come home for one. I miss him awful, but the money’s good, better’n anything here, and we’re savin’ to buy us a house. Me too. I’m puttin’ money away.”

  We’ll be here all night, he thought, I don’t move this conversation toward the finish line. “OK, Room twety-two it is, Alice. You take Visa?”

  “No, nuh uh. Cash, or a check on a local bank.”

  The last minute stop at the ATM machine in Clarksville had been a wise move, and he put a twenty on the counter. Alice placed a register that appeared to date from the days of steel pens and inkwells next to the bill. “You want to fill that out for me, then I’ll show you up. Any luggage?”

  “In my truck,” he said, and looked down at the page. David Driver was the last entry, a week earlier. Home address was Back of Beyond, license number left blank. As were the five previous entries on the page; three Mr. & Mrs. Smiths, a Fox, and a Baer. More Yankee humor.

  She handed him the key, said, “Get your bag; I’ll fetch you some towels, see you up there.”

  Back in the bar, Chick brought his glass to Pudge for a refill. “Who was that?”

  “A nice, polite fella. Wanted a room for the night.”

  “He ask any questions?”

  “Oh, yeah. He was full of ‘em.” Pudge put a forefinger on either side of her temples, and rolled her eyes. “Let’s see; he asked did I have Yuengling. And did we still rent rooms. You been actin’ kinda antsy, last few days, Chick. You and Howie both. What’s goin’ on?”

  “Nothin’s goin’ on. Except you ain’t drawed me another beer.”

  At the top of the stairs a broad hallway ran left and right. Low wattage light from ceiling globes marked his progress with faint shadows on the plaster walls. A shaft of brighter light from an open door beckoned.

  The room had a ten foot ceiling, ornate crown molding hiding under layers of paint, and a patina of dust. A worn carpet that had probably felt the boots of the Molly McGuires covered the floor.

  He dropped his suitcase on the bed, shoved his go-bag under. It was big, brass, and had enough clearance beneath it for a footlocker. He crossed to the window and parted heavy velour drapes of indeterminate color, looked down at his truck.

  “I put towels on the rack and a fresh soap.” He turned; Alice stood in the bathroom doorway, backlit. A waif; less than five feet tall, way less than a hundred pounds, even with her metal decorations. “You hafta let the hot run awhile, ‘fore it gets up here. But there’s plenty, once it comes. Don’t know about you, but I don’t think there’s nothing better’n a long, hot bath to get relaxed.”

  She took a couple of steps closer. “Unless it’s a sensual massage. I can do that, release your tensions. Twenty bucks for a tug job, get you off.”

  “A tug job?”

  “Uh huh. I use warm baby oil, and don’t even ask, ‘cause I don’t do nothin’ else. See, me and my husband, before we got married, he had urges, natural ones of course, he ain’t no pervert. Only, doing sex outside of holy matrimony is a mortal sin, you go straight to hell. And I don’t even much like the summers here, so you can imagine how I’d fare down there.

  “Anyways, he learned me how to get him off, and, not blowin’ my horn, but I’m middlin’ good. That’s the money I been puttin’ away, for our house? So, if you can’t sleep, or wake up with a woody, rap on the other door in the bathroom.”

  “OK,” he laughed. “I’ll be sure to do that.” He took her by the elbow, guided her to the hallway. “Good night, Alice.” He shut and locked the door.

  The bathroom featured an enormous claw foot tub that would hold two, with room to play. It rested on a floor of silver dollar-sized octagonal white tiles, cracked and crazed from decades of abuse. The pedestal sink was streaked red from iron stains. He used the toilet, washed his face with cold water, and brushed his teeth. Turned out the light and made sure the door was locked.

  An hour later an automatic weapon rattled the windowpanes, and Justice was over the edge, and under the bed, groping for his weapon. He opened his eyes and focused on the musty, worn rug under his nose. A motorcycle.

  He was in Pennsylvania, not war-torn Central Asia. Nobody was shooting at him. Someone in the saloon downstairs had left, rode off into the night on a bike. Probably the one he’d heard arrive, an hour ago.

  Get a grip, Justice. you’re back in The World, now. Car backfires, Harleys, even shotguns in the night are no reason to go ballistic. He climbed back into bed, willed his racing heart to catch up to reality. Learning Civilian was not as easy as it seemed.

  Four hours later dawn leaked around the drapes. He awoke, once more momentarily disoriented. Dust motes lazily swam in the sunbeams. This time he stayed in, rather than under, the bed, and replayed the last twenty four hours.

  The phone call from Davy’s sister, the long drive to Pennsylvania. It’s odd women. He rolled out of bed, and cleared the cobwebs with cold water, then puled on shorts and his running shoes for a quick five K. Clear the kinks from eighteen hours behind the wheel. Use it or lose it.

  Pine Street sloped downhill, past the hotel’s bar entrance; it’s windows dark, the neon signs lifeless glass tubing. The dew-damp bricks were slick. He lifted his foot to a hydrant, stretched, sucked in the moist morning air that carried a hint of woodland. Alone, with the birds.

  He jogged along the sidewalk, shadow boxing, wind milling his arms, getting loose. Marked time at a four way stop, waited for a trash truck to pass. At First Street he saw a small park, and the river.

  PARADISE PARK was carved into a thick slab of wood, the recessed letters painted gold on a field of green. The name tickled a faint memory, and he crossed the street for a closer look. A brass plaque was screwed to the bottom of the sign: ‘Donated to the Citizens of Shaleville by Paradise Industries inc. 1971’

  A small parking lot, a few picnic tables in the shade of silver maples filled with bickering grackles. A cobblestone boat launch. Dew sparkled on the grass.

  First Street followed the river, and Justice turned right, began his run, soles crunching on the gravel berm with the regularity of a metronome. A trio of inch-thick cables, mounted on heavy steel posts, marked the edge of the road, and kept errant vehicles from tumbling down the steep slope into the water.

  The river ran fast and white; boulders the size of trucks created chutes, eddies, waves. The thunder of the river was louder than the occasional vehicle that passed.

  First Street became River Road. Fifteen minutes later it turned hard left, onto an iron bridge, and crossed the river. He judged it a good halfway point in his run, and slowed. Maybe turn up Maple Street on the way back, check out Number 309. Recon, before the mission.

  A rutted dirt track dropped to the river bank below the bridge. Two men in gaudy red and yellow wet suits were unloading kayaks from the roof of a charcoal SUV. Papaw had taught him the canoe, but white water and kayaks were a whole notch up. Learning was a life long journey. Another thing his Papaw had instilled at an early age. He made his way down to the landing, said good morning.

  The two men were Barry and Gordon, from New Jersey, and, boy, were they glad to see him. Usually there’s teenagers hanging around the park, looking to make a couple of bucks. Not today. So, and I won’t insult you by offering money, if you’d drive our car back to the park. . .

  The car in question was a Porsche Cayenne. “Yessir,” he said, “You gents don’t mind a little honest sweat on them leather seats.” He opened the driver’s door, slipped inside. Still had the new car smell; there was a bit over thirteen hundred miles on the clock. “Y’ain’t askeered I’ll take off with it?”

  Gordon tossed him a set of keys, laughed. “Nah. We’re bond traders.”

  Justice got the feel of the vehicle on the twisty drive back. Hoo-ah. So, this was what bond traders—whatever that was—drove. There was a stack o
f quarters in a coin holder beneath the radio, and he used them to buy three coffees at the shop on Main Street. He grabbed a handful of the cream and sugar packages; no telling how the boaters took it. For Justice the stuff was just a delivery vehicle for caffeine, and he loaded his up with cream and sugar for the energy they provided. A liquid power bar, without the healthy side effects. Two cops eyed him when he came in, nodded when he went out. Hope they don’t ask to see a driver’s license, he thought, and drove to the park.

  “Did I have you fellers worried?” Barry and Gordon were draining water from their boats.

  “Not in the least,” Barry said, taking one of the coffees from Justice. “It’s Gordon’s car.”

  “Living on the edge, at work and at play. Risk is its own reward.”

  “Maybe so.” Justice pointed at the Porsche. “Got some nice fringe benefits, though, don’t it?” He looked at the sign. “Either of you gents know what Paradise Industries is? I know I’ve heard of it, but can’t figure where.”

  “You look like a man that ought to know. Sportsman, I mean. Hunt, fish, climb mountains? It’s thermal underwear. ‘You’re in Paradise’.”

  “OK, right; we wore the stuff in the military. They make it right here, huh?”

  “Not anymore. Like Springsteen said, ‘these jobs are goin’, boys, and they ain’t comin’ back’. In Paradise’s case, the jobs went south, about forty years ago, along with the rest of the Northeast’s textile manufacturing. Ten years later it went to Asia. Except for the river here, Shaleville is past tense. If someone could figure out how to outsource the white water, they’d do that too. Everything’s got a price, and everything’s for sale. It’s why God invented bond traders.”

  “The kayak’s are still made in America, at least for now.” Gordon had a new boat, a 54 gallon Medieval, by Dagger, and he used it to a brag a bit. “Man, did you see me! I was doing enders and cartwheels easier than I ever did with my old Prijon. Any time I wanted to go vertical, all I had to do was expose an edge, and I was Rocket Man! And then, with an end up, it only took one pry to swap.”